


A Lesson in Geography

by MrMcLemons



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Alpha Pagan Min, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Claiming, Cussing, Denial of Feelings, Doggy Style, Dubious Consent, Exploitation, F/M, Funny to Intense Real Quick, Gaslighting, I mean c'mon its ABO of course its dubcon, If You Squint - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, Manipulation, Marking, Mental Coercion, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Older Man/Younger Woman, Omega Original Character, One Rotten Lemon!, Pagan Min is whipped, Pining, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Scenting, Sexual Tension, Smut, Sugar Daddy, Teasing, Then lots of porn, Tons of Exposition, basically the fattest plot that still isn't a slow burn, dumbass oc, he makes taking measurements very hard, he won’t let this chance slip through his fingers, is this how tailoring works? definitely not. just go with it, she’s a tailor, shit gets spicy chapter 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMcLemons/pseuds/MrMcLemons
Summary: Tailoring has been the niche Una found solace in for years after being first ostracized for presenting as an Omega, and now she’s finally making a career of it. Pagan Min, the King of Kyrat, is her first big commission, and when he sends her far more money than necessary things start looking up. Until they don’t.





	1. Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Sewing Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Una gets her first big job and it pays off in two ways: literally and then later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing this for all the times I've randomly woken up at night wondering why there is not enough Pagan Min stories.

My first big break comes when I’m asked to commission for the King of Kyrat.

It’s just embroidery on a set of dress shirts. More touch up lacing than anything, because the regular sowers probably got lazy and wanted an extra eye to cushion their negligence. The royal clientele probably complained about the fabric being itchy or rough, and somehow my name was brought up to accommodate that without jeopardizing the style.

Embroidery really wasn’t where I shined, but if I had to eat Chef Boyardee for another fucking meal I don't think I'd have the will to go much farther on. When I mentioned it to my roommate, Iggy, her new side-piece had approached me in an attempt to chew me out for supporting a dictator because what kind of human was I to do that?

A desperate one. If she wanted to pay my portion of the rent she could, but the only thing was fuck my roommate so I told her I'd think about it (I didn't) and then I went to bed. King or dictator or not, its a job. My broke ass can’t afford me trying to be a good person. I'd much rather sleep with a heavy conscious in a bed than freeze to death with a clear conscious in a cardboard box, so I'll take my chances spinning the sin wheel.

Most shit in the industry is done by machine anymore anyways, so my skills are pretty much restricted to the elite. One day maybe I'll have enough money to not have to fund a four thousand a month apartment that was only three hundred square feet and then _maybe_ I could afford a conscience. Who knows.

Where even is Kyrat? It sounds familiar, probably from taking some stupid advanced placement history class I definitely shouldn’t have taken in high-school, but beyond vague familiarity it was almost a clean slate. Another blob of land probably in Asia, even more probably in the middle of a war and riddled with the scars of poverty. Maybe that's why Iggy's girlfriend was angry at me.

It doesn’t really matter. I'm sent the shipment of clothing and I receive it through a local tailor staple called Thread & Dread. I‘m not actually employed under them, but after a smaller break doing the costume commission for Russel Crowe in Gladiator back in 2000, my name got some more traction and I made friends. I‘d really only fixed the crotch of his pants whenever the thread came loose, but now my contacts in Thread & Dread were working their magic and I finally got called up by some of their buddies at Dolce & Gabbana when they couldn’t fulfill the King of Kyrat’s order to a T. Apparently he was a picky little bitch. Rich Alphas usually were. Honestly it was a bit of an unbelievable jump from nothing to everything, but really who the fuck was I to complain? Don't question the hand that feeds you, or whatever.

It made a lot more sense when I finally got the suits. All pink, almost purpleish if you squint and tilt it just right. This guy wasn’t very young if Google was right, and the lack of color coordination really attributes to that fact. Bad eyesight? It doesn’t really matter. Mid-life crisis or flamboyant gay, he's rich and I'm desperate. I’d swallow my unwanted fashion advice and spit it out for someone else who wasn’t going to pay for a chunk of my apartment for the next month.

I deliver the suit back within the week and the Monday after drop by Thread & Dread to meet Ezio for my split check from Dolce & Gabbana. They’d set a static com percentage but hadn’t told me what it was. When I open the check it reads two thousand five hundred. All that for barely a button job. Cool.

Ezio calls me back in Thursday and wouldn’t tell me what for. When I arrive I’m pissed because he’d interrupted my guilty _True Blood_ binge. As Iggy calls it I'm Hangry, but instead of Hungry + Angry I'm Horny + Angry, and him interrupting my private time really isn't helping. He's also grinning which irritates me more, even though I know he’s just a kind idiot. He hands over another envelope. “Merry Christmas!” He says, even though its the middle of July.

I‘m skeptical, and rightfully so. Our versions of good surprises are very different. Last year he’d set me up on a blind date without asking, better yet with an Alpha who didn’t even want to date an Omega. Too whiny, he’d said. Ezio had apologized, but it hadn’t spared me the humiliation of having to pay for my portion, because the Alpha didn’t give a fuck enough to pay after he was ‘duped’. How’s that fuck for fucking _whiny_.

Point is, Ezio is an optimistic Beta who obviously isn’t drowning in crippling college debt like I am. He’s got plenty pocketfuls of sunshine that I’ve got no hand in.

“What is it?” I take the envelope warily, mostly sure he wouldn’t be able to set me up with another blind date via an envelope.

“I’ve actually got no clue!” He’s still grinning, and that’s actually somehow more terrifying than the other option. “All I know is that your client sent it himself.”

Now that’s a punch to the gut. I feel my face drain, chest tightening as I flip over the envelope and looks at the address. Scratch that - there’s no address. Ezio clarifies it was delivered by plane or some rich bullshit but it’s all white noise to my ears.

_Fuck_, my career is definitely over. Sure it’d barely started, but a negative review from a goddamn Alpha monarch knocks any foundation or credibility I’d managed to build. Even Russel Crowe himself probably wouldn’t be able to save me even if he'd wanted to. I could see it now: my gravestone carved into the back of my granite island in the kitchen - **Here Lies Una Lambrelli, she really tried but just wasn’t good enough.** I‘d probably even get a bill beyond the grave for using the counter-top as a gravestone, because that definitely broke a lot of bylaws in the lease.

That familiar itch at the base of my throat ached to be scratched and it brought me back to reality. It hadn’t done that in a long time. _What the fuck? _My fingers reach halfway before clamping on the letter in fear and I don’t think much more on the itch. There’s a million terrible possibilities going through my head about whatever is inside this envelope, most of them being how I‘m either going to be living in a box or selling my body to grimy ass Alphas.

_Is this even really for me? Why would the King of Kyrat write me??_ The only indication of its authenticity is the cursive _King of Kyrat_ on its cover but somehow I know its real. It’s like the itch and I can’t deny it.

All I manage is a choked, “Fuck.”

Ezio’s grin tightens, but I’m sure it’s only because he’s trying not to smile boldly in the face of my outright horror. “Hey, don’t get worked up about it too much,” his hand is warm on my back, but besides that it offers no comfort beyond weight. “I’m sure it’s good news. From what I understand it has to be. He was ecstatic with the order!”

He says something about how I don’t have to open it here if I don’t want to, but the itching is growing stronger and my fingers are fumbling at the seal before I can even think about facing humiliation in front of him.

The first thing that tumbles out is a small letter, written on paper about the size of a note card. It’s frail and colored a light pink, and the writing on it bleeds just enough to show that it’s also authentic. It takes nearly ten seconds for my hand to stop shaking enough to be able to read it.

Ms. Lambrelli,

It has come to my attention a new set of hands was included in the making of my new closet. As unimportant as you may think your contributions were and as surprising as this letter may find you, I wanted to express my thanks for your adjustments, meager as they may be. I’ve found your assistance much better suits me than what I was receiving before. I hope the enclosed expression of gratitude receives you better as well.

King Pagan Min

My jaw is fucking aching and my brain is on overdrive. _Is this a dream?_ I‘m pretty sure I've had fever dreams this outrageous before, but by now I've usually woken up in a cold sweat and my jaw never aches this much. Fuck. It’s getting hot in here. I can smell him on the paper. How can I smell him on the paper? Its a subtle sweet and foreign scent, but I feel saliva pool into my mouth and I barely can swallow it over the knot in my throat.

Ezio must have read the letter over my shoulder because he is saying something again but I can only manage to slide the letter up and reveal the next slip, this one larger and its a check.

** _Holy fuck —_ **

“Does that say ten thousand dollars?”

I hear that loud and clear, like glass cutting through the flimsy _it’s a fever dream!_ facade because he just put what I am seeing into words. I try to count the zeroes but my hind-brain rears it’s head and all I can really think for that moment is _Alpha will protect you._

I'm unconscious before my body hits the ground.


	2. I'm Sure its Just the Brain Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pagan Min makes another gracious offering and Una isn't sure how she feels about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, knowing no one is going to comment or like this story because Pagan Min's following is pathetically small: why isn't anyone commenting?? :(
> 
> I promise it'll get more serious here soon.

I woke up in the hospital with an incision about two inches long across my forehead right above my left eyebrow held together with a butterfly bandaid. I’ve got a mild-concussion and a hefty bill, but I’ve also got ten thousand dollars and I’m still not completely sure if that’s real or if it’s the brain damage talking. Ten thousand dollars sounds good, but is it realistic? No.  
  
My finger lightly spritzes over the wound, which draws a wince and a soft _ow_ as I do it. _Fuck, that really stings_. But for some reason I can’t stop touching it as if it’ll hurt less the more I prod.  
  
From the couch a newspaper crinkles, Iggy’s dark eyes appearing over the top. “Stop touching it, you’re going to get an infection.”  
  
“But it hurts,” I murmur pathetically, touching it again with the same reaction.  
  
She flips the newspaper to a new page, sounding unimpressed, “And I’m sure touching it is making it a lot better.”  
  
“OK, well - who even reads newspapers anymore, anyways?” I respond childishly, no longer touching my eye but having to fight the strong urge to. It was almost as bad as when I had to scratch my glands the other day because my stupidly expensive suppressants decided to just not work.  
  
“Apparently not you anymore, rich bitch. Speaking of which, how’s your sugar daddy doing?” Even though Iggy’s tone is biting, I know it’s all bark. Despite having an Alpha aura, Iggy is one of the most chill Betas I’ve ever met. Which was weird considering the first time we’d met, she punched me under the impression I’d kissed her then-girlfriend. Now we are roommates.  
  
Still doesn’t mean I’ll take her shit, though. “I’m not gonna grace that with a response.”  
  
“You just did.”  
  
I hum, ignoring the slip up as I grab a class of chocolate milk.  
  
“Can Thi come over?”  
  
Thi is Iggy’s girlfriend, aka the person who chewed me out for making a suit for a dictator. I guess she could be a chill Beta like Iggy if she hadn’t shamed me like a judgmental bitch, but I now have the leverage of being rich. She can chew me out whenever she wants because now, I can afford AirPods and more discreetly not listen to what she has to say.  
  
I snort, “Why are you asking me? I’m not your mom.”  
  
This time Iggy can’t hide a grin from her voice. “Well since you and your alleged not-sugar daddy are going to be paying for the apartment for a while, I figured I’d ask. You know, trying to be polite.”  
  
“Aaaaaaand that’s my cue to leave.” I turn for my room, chocolate milk in hand, taking sips in an attempt to drown out Iggy’s jeers.  
  
“So I can have her over?”  
  
I sigh, “Just don’t fuck her and let me hear, alright?” Then toe the door shut right before Iggy can respond with something nasty, heading over to her bed, which has now recently expanded to take up more than half of the room.  
  
Granted my room was small in the first place, but ever since I’d received the new check the bed had expanded. I wouldn’t admit to anyone that it was beginning to resemble a nest, because _nope that wasn’t possible_ \- I’m not due for a heat in another four months. Why would it make sense for me to nest _now_?  
  
I also wouldn’t admit that the letter King Pagan Min had sent was tucked in the drawer closest to my bed, or that I’d have to fight with my hindbrain not to shove it in a pillow because th_at’s stupid and ridiculous because I haven’t even met this guy before what the hell Una?_  
  
After setting the milk down I tumble into bed and pull my brand new Mac into my lap. Its predecessor was four years old and Internet Explorer still hadn’t loaded from when I clicked it a year ago by accident, so I made the executive decision to splurge because it was time for a change.  
  
Now all the tabs from last night immediately pulled up as it comes to life, reminding me of where my head had been.

  
  
**Pagan min pictores**   
  
**Pagan Min pictures**   
  
**how far is Kyrat from us**   
  
**Will i die if i go to kyrat rn**

  
  
I frown. I didn’t remember being that drugged last night after the hospital visit, but damn if I hadn’t outed myself with this search history. My dumbass hadn’t even considered being subtle and using Incognito mode.  
  
I sip my milk and delete the tabs as fast as possible, trying not to think about the heat rising in my face as I go to my email in an attempt to feel professional. Most of it was spam, but sometimes random clientele would ask for small projects or something like that, which is what I was looking for. Hopefully it happened more frequently now that I’d been a big hit with a King.  
  
The first is from Dolce & Gabanna, and I scramble to click it.

  
  
  
**DOLCE & GABANNA**  
**7/20 ; 9:53AM**  
  
**SUBJECT:** Embroidery Commission - Pagan Min  
  
Hello,  
  
On behalf of our staff and our clientele, we would like to thank you for your partnership with Dolce & Gabanna. We pride ourselves on making the most high-end and luxury suits with hand-made stylizing fit for the comfort of our customers, and with your expertise we were capable of delivering another successful order. Despite this, given that the partnership was temporary, we have filled the spot within our own staff and no longer require any more of your work moving forward. However, we would like to keep open a line of communication if work becomes necessary. We are also willing to offer a recommendation for your resume, if necessary. Should this be a courtesy you would like to receive, please contact support@dolceandgabanna. Thank you for your help.  
  
We look forward to working with you,  
  
Marty Evans  
Head Supervisor of Staff  
  


  
  
My heart drops into my stomach. _What the fuck? Why are they dropping me if the client was clearly happy with my work?_ I’m confused and I feel sick, like the anxiousness has exploded in me and is numbing my limbs.  
  
I click the next email, trying to scrub the tears that are clearly peeling out of my eyes. The subject line one ominous word (‘continuation’) and the sender is simply listed under ‘UNKNOWN’. As soon as it loads the name changes to KING MIN, and the email itself follows soon after.  
  
  


  
**KING MIN**  
**7/20 ; 12:53PM**  
  
**SUBJECT:** Continuation  
  
I hoped to contact you next in extended good graces of my initial greeting, however I was informed of your unfortunate injury Yesterday. Along with having totaled your car last month, I’m sure your terrible American Insurance is stretched thin. Allow me to compensate once more, as I feel that I am partially to blame.  
  
I am sure the random nature of this email is alarming as well as disbelieving. I hope the deposit entering your bank account wipes any doubts away.  
  
Have a nice day,  
King Pagan Min  
  


  
  
Scrambling to a new tab I try to pull up my bank account, and try not to think about how fucking weird and out of place this is, because _isn’t it_? My brain is flopping around uselessly in my skull and I am trying not to puke because this is so overwhelming, and I can’t even fathom what I’ll do if this email is telling the fucking truth.  
  
I type in the password wrong three times because my vision is blurry through tears and then they ask me a fucking security question and I nearly flip my shit. I don’t, because I answer that right and it finally lets me in.  
  
I try to break this down rationally but I am not thinking very well. I had yet to deposit the 2.5k and 10k checks, but there was another addition of 15k pending to be verified.  
  
“I have brain damage. That’s it. This can’t be real.” I whisper to myself through sniffles, swiping at my nose and eye with the sleeve of my sweater. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

My neck starts itching and this time I’m too distracted to notice as my nails raking at the irritated skin. Somewhere in my conscious I can hear the hushed chant of _Alpha Alpha Alpha_ but I still feel too sick and confused to really recognize it.  
  
Even as my head throbs and I stare for minute after minute at my account balance. I can hardly fathom why this random fucking monarch in the middle of Asia would splurge so much money on me for some random embroidery and buttons. He was practically paying me as much as the actual suit tailors were being offered, and I’d spent less than a week on what was probably a two month long project.  
  
_Aw fuck, my head is spinning now. Greaaaat_.  
  
I mean, my insurance hadn’t covered the random ride in the wee-o-wagon, and he’d deposited enough money to cover that and still have a fuck ton to spare. _Also, how the fuck did he know I totaled my car? Aren’t insurance companies not supposed to give that information out?  
_  
The ache in my neck grew stronger and a lot of the concerns that want to claw their way to the front of my mind are drowned out by the warm feeling that spreads across me as I continue to scratch at my glands. This money could help so much, I could look into getting a car instead of having to bike everywhere, I could actually make a dent in my loans.  
  
Is this real? I pinch myself but am too preoccupied with waking up to flinch at the pain. Cool, I’m awake. I know I am but it just... how is this possible? This is the shit you see in fucky pornos or really horny rom-coms, like _Fifty Shades of Grey_ or something.  
  
I try to consider how the fuck I’ve landed this sort of luck. Maybe this dude is filthy rich and doesn’t know what to do with his money, and I’m just benefitting off of a mid-life crisis in the best way possible. Or maybe he‘s just really horny and wants to knot an Omega.  
  
But how would he know I am one? I mean, it was easy to figure out with him because he’s a king and has a google page, but Wikipedia has nothing on me and -  
  
There’s a sound, no - it’s a fucking _moan_, and for a second I think that Thi is over and Iggy is having her way again without any sort of care for me hearing, but then I whimper and I realize that _I _made that fucking sound. _I moaned_.  
  
I realize what I’m doing with my hand and rip it down from my neck, horrified at how I’d been rubbing my glands to the point where I was openly moaning, and _oh shit that’s fucking gross.  
_  
I need to get out of here. I look at my laptop and try not to tug at the roots of my hair. Someone else needs to see this. I’ve got to know I’m not fucking losing my mind and I need to get out of this bed before I trigger my own heat.  
  
Thi is probably over so Iggy is off limits, not that I’d really want to hear her tease me more for having a sugar daddy. She’d probably encourage me because of the rent and then her girlfriend would get madder at me and they could have better hate sex. I frown at that. Definitely off limits.  
  
The only other person who I know for a fact is available is Ezio, and I really don’t want to go back to him after he sent me to the hospital with a whopping bill. He’ll probably call another ambulance after seeing how delusional I am.  
  
I don’t have many other options though, so I shove my Mac into my backpack and bolt out my door, ignoring Thi’s glare as I keep my head down and duck the stairwell. I try not to hyperventilate but I’m going at a fast pace and I’m panicking, so my breath is coming very quickly anyways.  
  
I clumsily fumble with my phone and wired headphones (because I don’t have AirPods yet) and scroll through my contacts as I unlock my bike and eventually get on. It’s a shitty Schwinn with curved handles that creaks with any small amount of weight, but I don’t hear it squeal under me as my phone rings.  
  
The wheels are barely rolling when there’s a click, then: “How is my injured lady fairing?” Is the first thing he asks, instead of greeting me - like, you know - a normal person would.  
  
“What’re you doing right now?” My voice comes out breathy and I’m sure I look like I just got done running a marathon with how much I’m sweating, but the heat and blush in my cheeks is for an entirely different reason.  
  
“I’m about to close shop at work, it’s been slow—“  
  
“Give me five minutes and I’ll be there.”  
  
“....today.”  
  
I can’t tell if he’s confirming that_ yes_, I’m coming today as in right now, or if he’s in shock that I’m willingly putting myself in his space. “Five minutes.” I wheeze as I hit a crack in the pavement. It’s really more of a ten minute ride, but I’m riding pretty fast and I need a little bit of confidence.  
  
There’s a long pause, “Are you alright? I can wait longer, do you need me—“  
  
“No, no ambulance.” I cough, wow I’m out of shape. Maybe it’s also because I think I’m about to have a panic attack because this has definitely got to be some sort of simulation-type bullshit. Fuck the Matrix.  
  
“Um, okay, I’ll just… wait… here.” He doesn’t hang up and I’m too busy trying to dodge toddlers on the sidewalk to do it myself, because the last thing I need is to turn a kid into roadkill right now. “Is it about what I think it’s about?”

I’m almost ninety percent sure it’s not, but, “Maybe? I don’t... fucking…” I wheeze again, “I don’t know.”

He sounds like he’s chewing on his lip as he lets out a deep sigh, “I’ll probably be in the back when you come in. Take your time and try not to die again.”

This time I have no chance to respond before he hangs up, and as I’m about to start up one of my Spotify playlists my bike falls into a crack and I almost hit someone’s Chihuahua. “Fuck, sorry!” I can’t hear their response because I right the bike and AJR does the rest.  
  
The ride is only five more minutes after that, and I just bring the bike inside the shop instead of messing with the locks again. It crashes dramatically against one of the empty clothing racks and one of my fucking shoelaces almost snags on it.

My speed-walk is pathetic, but it gets me to the back room where Ezio is doing math or something and he beams at me, but I can see the tense apprehension behind it. The sight of him being tense makes me feel worse for what I’m about to say.

I realize how out of breath I am and suddenly I have no clue what to say. A lot of thoughts are swirling around and when I try to put them into words, I realize how distasteful they are in reality. Clarity swoops over me. Why would a monarch want to help me? Powerful men didn’t assume the throne out of graciousness, he obviously expects something in return. This isn’t an act of kindness so much as a promise, as leverage over me for something. I don’t know what, but something.

Payments fly out the window – no more car, no more dent in my debt, no more payment on that hospital bill. I can’t accept this. _I can’t. I have no clue who this man is, what he wants, or what he wants to gain from me._

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that's not true. I know exactly what he wants. I know exactly what I want. But the voice is so small I can pass its confidence off as an intrusive thought, even as it tries to claw its way to the surface of my skin.

I definitely need to say something now, but my breathing is only getting thinner, and instead of saying something comprehensive like _You need to see this, _I say, “I think he wants to be my Sugar Daddy.”


	3. In Which Everything Goes Wonderfully Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she's confronted with her designation and association with Pagan Min, Una decides she's fed up with everything and everyone - including the King himself. Alcohol, emails, and its aftermath are involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh - took me a while, but here it is. Do not fear - I promised myself I would finish this story before I could write anything else, and I will keep that promise on my grave.
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe and lively in these unprecedented times. It is hard on everyone, and I hope this bit of writing can be a reprieve - even if it is considerably more serious than the previous chapters. Stay safe, and I am sending love to everyone wherever you may be.
> 
> Please leave comments - I'd like to know where you think this story is going, or where it should go. I have everything planned out, but that doesn't mean things cannot change for the better!
> 
> ALSO - Pagan is making an appearance soon. Very soon.

“Can we have two rums with coke, please? Thanks.”

Somehow, we’d ended up at a dive bar and hadn’t really made much more leeway in the conversation, though we’d managed to establish that the King of Kyrat had developed some sort of money sympathy for me, much to my wallet’s benefit. I’m still not sure how alcohol is supposed to help clarify this situation, but it’s not like being sober has done me any good, either.

Also, it smells like BO and distinctly unattractive Alpha, which I’m not very fond of on a good day – now it feels like my nostril hairs are burning.

The waitress comes back I chase down more than half of my drink in one go. Shit’s cheap and it burns my throat enough that I splutter a bit. Meanwhile, Ezio sips his drink like he’s a single mom at a weekly book club, “Want some appetizers?”

“Do they have everything nachos? I love those things.”

“This place has some of the best nachos around, actually. I must have superb intuition.”

I look around out of habit, trying to guess which Alpha is making my stomach churn just by existing. “Yeah, well – this place better have something good, cause it reeks in here.”

“Really?” A loud slurp, “I thought suppressants were supposed to, like, stop that from happening.”

“Usually – yeah. I mean, they don’t usually completely kill the smell, but the shit I’m on should. Think I’m gonna have to get stronger stuff.”

“I’ve got a friend who sells that on the black market if you’re interested.”

I look up, jarred, “Are you serious?”

Ezio laughs, “No, but it sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

I huff, still surveying the area. I can still smell everything and its really putting me on edge. The bar is long and about half-full, and altogether the place is actually pretty busy. I think there are maybe three or four alphas, and I guess that at least two of them are playing Galaga on a couple of arcade machines in the corner by the bathrooms.

“A lot of things sound nicer than they are,” I say eventually.

“Yeah, true.” He clears his throat, “Speaking of, what are we gonna do about this whole sugar daddy thing?”

“We? He’s been giving you money, too?” I say, putting an affronted hand on my chest.

“What? No – of course not.” I roll my eyes as he saddles onto the defensive, obviously not cute with my joke. “I just mean – what do you think he wants?”

“How could I know?”

“Do you think he’s doing it because you’re an O?”

I feel a resounding answer thump at the back of my skull, but all I do is look around and frown. My face twists as a thought I hadn’t considered before occurred to me, “How would he even know I’m an Omega?”

“What?”

“Think about it - how could he know I’m an Omega? I found out he was an Alpha over Google,” (and, I note to myself at a more humiliating extent: when he sent that little letter of thanks). “Our contact has been limited to email. With the exception of the suit, I haven’t given a response in person or online – and I know no trace of my designation is posted anywhere. So how does he know?”

Ezio frowns in thought, gripping his chin. “Well, you said the suit was your only form of contact with him, so – that.”

I don’t believe that. Better yet, I can’t believe that. “Ezio, you know as well as I do that a suit going through Dolce and Gabanna would be thoroughly washed of any designation and therefore my scent. Besides, I used gloves and had my strongest blockers on. There is no chance he got a whiff.”

“I don’t know, what do you want me to say? That’s all that makes sense to me. Unless he like, hacked your government file or whatever.”

“But how would he know to hack it? What would be the point?”

He huffs, rubbing his eyes, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

The panic I’m feeling isn’t helped by the other Alphas in the room, but I try and train my eyes forward on Ezio. I don’t want to tell him that my instinct wants me to bend over, want me to believe that he smelled me on the suit. As impossible as it could be, the explanation for why he _might_ have been able to scares me enough to consider anything else.

An itch scratches at my neck and I sink my nails into my palm. _Hard_.

My voice shudders as I take a shaky exhale, “I just don’t know what to do. I feel very confused and - overwhelmed. Extremely overwhelmed. It’s like I’m in a dream.”

“I mean, I know what I would do if I were you.”

I exhale, for the first time since confiding in him regretting that I’d done so. I feel my shoulders relax as I’m forced to consider what he might say next. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

“There’s an obvious sexual implication with being a sugar daddy – right?”

I interrupt him before he can continue. “He never actually approached me as being my Sugar Daddy, Ezio. That was more of a joke than anything.”

“That doesn’t matter - listen, he’s an Alpha, and you’re – you know - an Omega. That implication is inherently sexual, just because of designation and whatnot. And maybe he doesn’t know you’re an Omega, but we do.”

I nod into my drink, exhaling shakily.

“I think you should give the money back, otherwise… I think… I think… I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I suck on my lip, “…because I’m an Omega.”

“Yes.” Ezio says softly, maybe flinching a bit, too.

“…Because that means I’m taking advantage of him. Playing into the role of being helpless and needing to be cared for. Or that we’ll fuck because that’s what Alphas and Omegas do.”

Ezio sighs, rubbing his reddening cheeks, “I – I didn’t mean it like that.” I look at him blankly, and he pleads, “Really – I didn’t.”

I know he didn’t. But he still said it and it still stings, even if I enjoyed the feeling of being cared for. Even though I won’t admit it.

Instead, I grit my teeth, trying to grasp at the rational part of my brain untouched by instinct. “Listen, I want to give the money back – I do. I just, well – for one I don’t know how – and two, it’s…” I close my eyes, feeling a little humiliated that I don’t want to give the money back – not really. Had it been anyone else, I’d have done it in a moment, but now all I harbor is confusion and instinct, and Ezio’s Beta ass will not understand that a lick. But I _want_ him to understand, and I know he cares enough to listen, but also its something I just need to get out of myself. “Look, it’s really hard to say no to some certain Alphas, like – really fucking difficult. It’s a combination of guilt and this stupid innate desire to please, and it’s really random who that instinctual response pertains to.”

“I understand. I mean – not really, no – but I mean I think that’s even more of a reason to give it back. And if it helps, don’t think of it as disrespect to him or whatever – think of it as a ‘fuck you’ to instinct, because you’re a very strong an independent person, and you really don’t need his money. You don’t need anyone’s money. Really, you don’t need anyone’s approval – not even mine. You can keep it or give it back, but I think you need to do what would be best for you because of you, not for any instinctual response or duty.”

It sounds nice – makes sense, even – and I smile a bit at his praise, even if it’s not the glowing reaction I get from an Alpha’s praise.

I nod as the thought rolls around in my mind and gains traction. Who gives a fuck if Ezio’s praise isn’t the same as an Alpha? I certainly don’t! (I do).

I slam the lid on that thought because Ezio’s right – I don’t really have anything to prove to anyone else, but at the same time maybe I do have something to prove to myself. Especially since I feel so out of control.

A little fire lights in my stomach, and when my neck itches I scratch at the table to forget the burn. “Okay, so – I give the money back…” Wait… I frown, “ - but what if he doesn’t accept it?”

“You force him to. _You_ become the Alpha.”

_Me being the Alpha. How many times have I imagined that happening? Pfft._ I look around again then cut the urge in half and look back at him. “How though?”

There’s a short pause. “I may not have thought that far ahead. Gimme a sec.” He turns, as the waitress passes, “Hey, can you just bring us the whole bottle?”

Two hours pass, the first of which remained steadily productive until about my third or fourth drink – then the ship started getting rickety, verging on sinking. At one point we almost made me a Tindr account and at another, we argued the designations of Star Wars characters. (Luke is totally an Omega, but Ezio disagrees). In the middle of all of it was, of course, a giant pile of nachos.

Now, though, we had refocused to the emails, deciding it was the best form of communication with Pagan Min, even if - in reality - it was really my singular mode of communication with the King of Kyrat.

When I told Ezio about the emails he was on his third drink and giggled like a schoolgirl looking at texts from her crush.

“So, you just didn’t respond?” He asks.

“No, what would I have said?”

“Coulda been like – ‘hey dude, the only thing getting stuck in me is a needle!’” He laughs at his own joke and I’m so drunk it sounds kinda funny too.

“No, that’s terrible!” My ribs ache with laughter, and my words are starting to slur. “Can you even respond to restricted emails?”

Ezio’s smirks, “Let’s find out.”

I don’t fully process his words, “Wait, are you gonna hack him?”

“No, dummy – I’m gonna reply.”

That doesn’t sound like a very good idea, but am I too drunk to care? Absolutely. “Fuck yeah! Then I’m the Alpha!”

“Yeah, then you’re the Alpha!” He laughs, “We should put that in the email – ‘hey, bitch – take back your money cos I’m the Alpha’. How do you think he’d respond?”

I imagine how that would go, and my neck tightens up as I think about how the Alpha would probably lunge for my nape. It’s a blurry image but my body tingles at how it slowly rolls around in my head. “Not good. I’d probably get sniped.”

Ezio nods, “Then we’d have to go to war, and war is not good.”

“You’re right, not good,” I pause, “I think they’re already at war in Kyrat, like, uh, civil war - Thi mentioned it when she was condemning me to hell or whatever.”

“Still, no war for us is good,” Then, “Here, I just sent the email.”

Alarms ring in my head as I snatch my phone.

> **TO: UNKNOWN SENDER:: MAYBE: PAGAN MIN**  
**7/21 ; 12:01AM**  
  
**SUBJECT:** Money!!
> 
> Hello. Please take back your mney. I do not need t! I am a strong woman and I am just doing my job !!
> 
> Thanks, Una
> 
> (Co writen by Ezio))

I frown, “This is terrible! It doesn’t even sound like me!”

Ezio looks offended, “I think it sounds fine.”

“You didn’t even use grammar correctly. Or format the email good.”

Ezio moans dramatically, “Who cares?”

I feel a little panicked because obviously I care. It’s not the image I want to send to him. But what image _should _I want to send?

I really don’t feel like answering that. My stomach is starting to twist and I just know it’s not the image of whatever Ezio wrote.

I type madly.

> **TO: UNKNOWN SENDER:: MAYBE: PAGAN MIN**  
**7/21 ; 12:01AM**  
  
**SUBJECT:** IGNORE PREVIOUS EMAIL
> 
> Hi,
> 
> Please ignore the previous email. Someone stole my phone. However, I would like to echo the request to return the money, me and my head and my wallet are very OK.
> 
> Thanks and sorry,
> 
> Una

“I did not steal your phone!”

I’m about to retort when two messages return instantly: **MESSAGE SEND REQUEST PENDING – FAILURE.**

“What the fuck does that mean?” I say, confused. “Did they not send?”

“I don’t know – sounds like we have to hack them!”

I chug the rest of my drink and it goes straight to my head. I think I utter a _woah_ when Ezio picks up my phone and I immediately go after it, my movements growing progressively slower. Its kinda like being in a time machine. Or water. Water is probably a better comparison.

“Give it back – “

“I’m just looking!”

My nose stings. Woof. It really smells bad. Maybe I’m stress sweating? “Give it back, you’re gunna mess it up. You messed it up!”

“I did not!”

“Gimme, you fuck – “

“There a problem here?” A new voice says too loudly.

I turn – first the wrong way – then back and straight into a pile of sweaty gym shorts. At least, that is what it smells like.

It takes me a moment to put two and two together as I blearily look this guy up and down – sweaty, mussed, and with a couple of scars littered on his face. Maybe a broken nose – I don’t know, his face is dancing in front of mine and it could just be the alcohol.

Fuck, though, because he’s an Alpha. Galaga Alpha.

Ezio is saying, “No, no problem,” when I look at him and then slowly back up at the Alpha dude, feeling as if I’m watching the scenario from afar. Something probably not good is gonna happen.

“We’re just having fun. You can go.” I hiccup, and this guy must take what one of us says as an offense because next thing I know someone’s hands are on me and my fight mode kicks in.

People start shouting and our chairs are thrown. I have no clue where my phone has gone. Some other guy comes in and I think if he had not intervened Ezio probably would’ve been flattened. I do not know.

Everything beyond that is entirely black.

“Hey, dumb shit – wake up. Your phone’s been going off for, like, an hour.”

Pounding noise rackets my skull. There’s a lot of sudden and jarring light in my vision that makes me squint and roll over, but the sudden movement makes me squeamish. I don’t really hear what’s being said but slowly I hear my phone ringing off the hook.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Iggy repeats, nudging my back with her toe.

“Fuck.” I push up to my elbows, “Why does it smell like soup?”

“You came back absolutely shredded and started making soup, then you spilled it all over the bed.”

I groan, even I smell like soup and I think my hair is a little damp. Where it’s not damp it’s crusty.

I groan again, “Fuck.”

Iggy snorts, “Must’ve had a fun time last night. Who’d you come back with? Didn’t recognize him.”

“Ezio.”

“Nah, unless Ezio shrunk about two inches and changed his race, I don’t think you came back with him.”

Fuck my head really hurts. I yawn, getting up slowly so I don’t disturb my stomach. I grapple for one of my old water bottles beside my bed, wracking my brain. “What are you talking about?”

“Dude dragged your ass back, could hardly see his face – was wearing a big ass scarf and gloves. Did you puke all over yourself or what?”

“God, I hope not. I don’t remember anything after the emails.” I suddenly pat the bed for my phone, “Fuck – the emails. Oh my god. I’m so fucking stupid.”

Iggy cackles, “What did you do?”

“We emailed Pagan Min telling him to take the money back. Twice.” I finally find my phone and quickly swipe in. “Before you say anything – no, he’s not my sugar daddy, big miscommunication.”

“On your part or his?”

I look at her sharply. “Listen – despite what your righteous girlfriend has to say, I just made his suit and then money started dumping into my account. I didn’t do _anything_ else.”

There’s a pause as I scroll through my notifications, which appear to be mostly calls from Ezio. I check my emails but they’re taking a moment to load.

“Well she has a point.” My head snaps up, and Iggy continues undaunted. She looks far more serious than five seconds ago and even in this state I can tell the conversation isn’t going to go where I’d like it to. “He’s a dictator, and you worked for him.”

“Holy fuck. Are you serious right now? You’re joking about him being my sugar daddy, saying I could pay for the apartment and all this shit, and now _I’m_ the bad guy? What the fuck?”

“I joked about it before, but then Thi brought up some good points. He’s not a good ruler, Una. He’s a dictator and he slaughters his own people by the hoards. They’re in a civil war. I’m just saying you should think about that.”

“So you’re righteous now, too?” I sneer, “Great.”

“I’m not the one who’s taking commissions from a dictator because he’s an Alpha.”

“Because he’s an Alpha? Oh, that’s fucking rich.” I hardly recognize my own voice – it’s so rageful that it deepens. Iggy isn’t perturbed by my sudden anger, but it's white-hot and it even scares me a little with how blaring it is. I want to bare my teeth at her and hiss, want to _rip_ _her_ _fucking throat out_, but instead I just feel pinpricks all up my body as I ignore the urge. “First off, I didn’t even fucking know who I was working for until after, second off, I made a fucking suit – are you really going to say I assisted a dictator because I made a suit? It’s not a nuclear fucking warhead, Iggy. And him being an Alpha has jack shit to do with it – I got approached with a job and I accepted. What’s wrong with that? I can’t background check every one of my clientele before I work for them.”

“I’m just saying maybe you should think about it. He’s clearly trying to take advantage of you because you’re an Omega.”

“Clearly?” I grit my teeth so hard that I can feel the echo grating in my skull. “How pathetic do you think I am? Do you think I seriously took the job because I wanted to please a fucking Alpha? If anyone is trying to take advantage of me for my designation it’s you and your fucking girlfriend!”

Iggy shrugged. Her nonchalance pissing me off more. “We’re not taking advantage of your designation, and if you think we are you’re delusional. All I think is that you should respect the image you present of yourself, because as an Omega - ”

I laugh crudely, and the suddenness of it definitely takes Iggy by surprise – her serious face cracks as she stutters to a halt, and it’s probably the first time I’ve seen it happen in an argument. She’s usually like stone, but I am absolutely feral with rage.

“You have no clue what you’re talking about. Do you know how stupid you sound? Unlike you, I don’t have the privilege to think about my image, because no matter what I fucking do I’m the weak one. I’m _always_ the weak one! I have been trying to send the money back, and I can’t undo what I’ve already done, but I still have to think about my image? Fuck you. No – fuck you _and_ fuck your girlfriend. Shove your designation and my image up your ass and get the fuck out.”

I get up, seething. I think my eyes are burning with tears, but I will not let them fucking fall. I twist my hand into my jeans as I face Iggy, and I can see the distress in her eyes – maybe it’s caused by the pheromones coming off me, or maybe it’s because she cares. Do I give a fuck? No.

She’s a fucking Beta. She doesn’t get it. She won’t ever get it.

“I think you need to see a doctor.” Her voice is so quiet that it stings because I can feel the heat fluttering all around me.

This time I can’t stop myself and I lunge forward. Iggy flinches but I just grab the door frame and snarl. “Find a new fucking roommate. And don’t get one that’s an O, you piece of shit.” I slam the door shut in her face, fingers sinking into the wood as the anger pumps through my system.

I probably do need to see a doctor and a therapist, but I hate that Iggy suggested it – like she knows what’s right for me. She’s not my fucking Alpha.

_Rip out her throat._

I don’t flinch as the thought crosses my mind stronger now before than ever. I grab a duffel and shove all my necessities in it: clothes, suppressants, toothbrush, deodorant, money, laptop. That’s pretty much the extent of my important belongings. Besides, if I want to nest I don’t have to worry about bringing anything.

That thought does make me flinch. I need to get out of here – Iggy’s scent is making me angry and now I’m thinking about nesting. I think I’m losing my mind.

I change my clothes and spritz myself with scent neutralizer, hoping that it’ll mask the scent of soup and drunkenness and pheromones. Maybe those other factors in general will distract from the fact that I need new medicine. And a shower.

I look around the room, breathing out of my mouth and then I taste it. The letter.

A multitude of emotions flood my system. I clench my fist at the calming, albeit fading, scent of an Alpha. The Alpha that has caused all of this commotion and upheaval in my personal and emotional life. The King of Kyrat - Pagan Min. The sweetest smelling Alpha I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.

_Think I need him? I’ll show them. I don’t need **anyone**._

I grab the letter and leave. I don’t see Iggy and I’m glad because I’m not sure how I’d handle myself if I did because I definitely can’t just rip her throat out with no immediate consequences.

The slightly pink paper crinkles in my hand as I grip it harder. I still reek of pheromones and it’s probably not safe for me to go out in public smelling like this. Despite my anger, I rub the paper briefly along my neck, allowing the mixture of scents to subdue my own considerably and dually placate me. Now I won’t be a target. Probably.

I feel humiliated, though. Even if I know what I’m doing is temporary and for the sake of my survival, I can’t help but feel as if I’m relying on someone just because they’re an Alpha.

I don’t even fucking know him and he’s helped me and fucked me over in the same instances. But I don’t need a fucking Alpha. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.

“Not anymore,” I swear to myself. “I don’t need a fucking Alpha.” All I need is some new medicine and a better roommate.

When I exit the complex I throw the letter away.


	4. Emotions? How About No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Una gets medicated and tries to take back control of the broken cookie jar that is her life, and she begins by trying to pry off all of the sticky fingers that want to linger in her business. Pagan Min isn't satisfied with just a few swipes at the cookie jar—no, he wants the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of things have happened in real life! Corona has actually left me busier than ever, but the next chapter of this is going up soon. I have everything planned out and this is the last 'hump' in my writing before we start getting to the good stuff.
> 
> In other news, I've updated the tags & even tagged all of my works to let everyone know which fics are in progress, on hold, abandoned, etc.. That directory of info is in my profile. Otherwise, I will be tagging the chapters individually for certain things, as it starts to get wishy-washy from here on out. I know this story started as a comedy, but it isn't going to end as one.
> 
> Please leave reviews! The more reviews the more motivated I am to write. I'd love to hear your thoughts and feelings on what's happening, or maybe even something you think will happen or want to see!

Showing up to urgent care in yesterday’s clothes with crusted soup in my hair really has got to be an all-time low for me.

I’m not the only one in the waiting room for designation therapy, but I can tell by far that I’m the least put together. There’s another Omega clutching to her Alpha, and she’s staring at me as if I’m about to pounce on him – although I think I’d be hard-pressed to find an Alpha that would want me in this state.

They call my name and when I walk past the couple the Omega snarls at me. I scoff. I’m literally covered in soup, what the fuck?

I also realize that if I had an Alpha at this point, I’d probably be acting the same way. I think that’s what really makes me angry.

The nurse-lady brings me back to a little room that smells heavy of lavender and neutralizer spray, like the kind I just put on. Regular doctor’s offices don’t have this smell, but since it’s a designation therapy room it’s meant to provide a calming fume that soothes demi-humans. For the first time since waking up I feel ease seep into my neck, even though my body is still tense from earlier.

I’m tempted to check my phone and really see what happened last night with Ezio, because I don’t remember anything and_ apparently_ I also hadn’t come home with him. I also have to call the bank, but that could wait.

Five minutes pass when an Alpha doctor comes in. It’s not my first time seeing an Alpha woman, but it isn’t super common either. They’re usually in higher positions of society despite being considered aberrant, and as much as I respect them they also scare me. Alpha females in particular are extremely dominant in a way that is incomparable to their male counterparts. It doesn’t help .

I sniff and bow my head after making eye contact with her, feeling heat sear into my cheeks at my lack of presentability. Being around an Alpha female always reminds me of being around my Grandma, the only aberrant in my immediate family. She was six foot flat and in charge of the highest security prison in America at the time – needless to say, she fucking terrified me.

When I realize I’m bowing my head I jerk it back up and try not to snarl at myself. She’s not my fucking Granny Heather, I can face her.

“Rough night?” Her voice is surprisingly soft, and even though she has a knowing look in her eyes it's definitely more comforting than anything.

“You could say that.” I stammer, smiling. I feel like my brain is being severed in halves of basking in Alpha and fuck the Alpha. It is very confusing, and even though I can barely smell her over the Lavender I still gravitate towards her.

She’s still looking at me with a gentle smile. My brain spurs into action, “I think I need new medicine.”

“Are you taking your suppressants now?”

“Yes. Every night at the same time.”

“I see here that you’re on 7omg of Abarenatal. That’s a pretty high dosage. How long have you been on it?”

“About two years now, but it’s obviously not working.”

She nods and writes something down. She lays down the board and puts her hands up in a sign of surrender, “Are you fine with me scenting you?”

I nod slowly. Being scented is usually a very intimate and personal experience and having a doctor do it is a lot like having gynecologists assess you – necessary but uncomfortable.

As she approaches, I think about something I read in the newspapers the other day about how Alpha females have even more sensitive noses than their male counterparts, which is what made them such valuable doctors. I remember they had some examples of a couple of doctors who developed their scenting skills to detect asymptomatic diseases. Crazy stuff.

When she bends down to my level I stare over her shoulder and look at a whirring fan in the corner. She breathes in heavily and I become hyperaware of the fact that she is right by where my hair smells most potently of soup.

“Have you encountered any newer Alphas recently?”

I lick my lips – she can definitely smell the Alpha scent that I rubbed on my neck. Kinda embarrassing. “No, I just had a friend lend me some help so I could come here.”

She hums and takes another deep breath. “You’re very close to heat. And your scent is blending with this Alpha’s.”

My hindbrain shivers in delight when she says that but I really don’t need the implication right now. I huff, “I don’t have time to go into heat. And I don’t have an Alpha to bring me through one.”

“How long has it been since your last heat?”

I rub gently at my wrist in a nervous gesture, “More than two years ago.”

“At what age?”

“Eighteen.”

She nods, leaning back against the exam table. “Ignoring a heat at this point is dangerous to your health, and I definitely wouldn’t advise it.”

“I can’t go into heat. I don’t have an Alpha and I don’t have the money or patience to take off work and suffer through one.”

“I understand. The issue is that you’re on the highest dosage of a very strong drug. The only way it would stop working is if your body felt it had found an ideal Alpha.”

I roll my tongue in my mouth.

Definitely not what I wanted to hear, _but…_

“Yeah. That’s not happening. Just get me on some new medicine.”

**—**

“What do you mean you can’t cancel the transaction?”

“It’s just what the computer is telling me, miss.”

“It’s my bank account, I don’t want that money coming in. You even said it was from an outside source – so how does that make sense?”

“We just do not have the ability to refund the statement at this exact moment. Given the size of the amount and the ambiguous source, we don’t have the power to redact such a transfer on the spot. Now, it is something we can actively work towards, but it would be easier if you received permission from the account as well as a number to return to.”

“You don’t even know the account number it was transferred from? It’s been two weeks!”

The lady over the line says something else but mid-way another phone dials. It’s Ezio.

“I’ll be calling you back. Bye.” Hanging up, I pick up the call with a sharp, “What’s up?”

It’s been two weeks since the bar. I’ve moved in with Ezio and managed to convince him and his roommate to do all the packing for me. I was crashing on the couch and the meds were working great – maybe a little too great. I’d turned into a bit of a raging bitch, although I felt more in control of my life than ever. So probably how Alphas feel constantly.

However, there were still two little problems.

One, I still have a couple of things at Iggy’s and mine’s old place that I want to personally box up (and a more businesslike confrontation with Iggy, since I’m now in control of myself and my scattered emotions). And two – which what is proving to be the more startling, yet less pressing issue – we still don’t know who brought me back to my place the night Ezio and I both blacked.

He got punched in the face once and went down. He didn’t see what immediately happened to me but I was on the ground and then someone else was intervening. We don’t know who that was or how he got me home, but Ezio said one second I was there the next I was being dragged out.

I, unfortunately, don’t remember any of it. Ezio said he didn’t even remember what the guy was wearing_. ‘I don’t know, he seemed tan? Definitely not drunk. Short. Cargo pants.’_ Not exactly a description that makes a visceral image.

Doesn’t fucking matter. I’m alive and I’m never drinking rum again. Screw Bacardi.

“I need you to come in and help us decide what your next few projects will be. We’ve got a couple of new offers I think you’d kill on.”

“Is it anything pressing? I need to run over to my place and get a couple of things then I’ll be over.”

“Take your time. See ya in a bit.”

“Later.”

I hang up and climb the stairs for my ex-apartment. I’d already been heading that way after refilling my new prescription for Aboramine, and even with the confidence surging unhurriedly through me I still felt nervous. I didn’t feel bad for standing my ground that day, but I did feel a little embarrassed about how I’d held myself.

The door opens when I slide in the key and I’m slightly relieved to find that the apartment is empty. Of course, that doesn’t last long. While I’m checking to make sure I didn’t leave anything in the bathroom or in my drawers, I hear the front door close and can’t help but sigh.

_Stay in control._

“Here goes nothing.” I shut the door and drawers a little on the louder side – not dramatic by any means, but direct enough to make my presence known.

I lug the box and bag under and over my shoulder respectively, elbowing the door open only to toe it close. Just as I fish out my key with my empty hand Iggy’s form enters behind her – _oh, **god** Thi too. Abandon ship._

Before I can beeline to the exit I remember I have to return the key, so I palm it into an envelope as I lean on the wall and slap it onto the countertop. It’s not as graceful as I would’ve liked because I almost knock the flowers over, but I catch it clumsily with my hip and own it.

“Keys. Already talked to the owner, all good. See you never, hopefully – “ Just as I’m about to open the door Iggy speaks.

“No. Wait. We want to talk to you.”

I scoff, “’We?’ The only ‘we’ here is you and me, and I know I don’t want to talk. Just like I sure as hell don’t care for what she has to say.”

“I want to apologize for what I said. I would’ve called earlier however I wanted it to be in person.”

I clench my jaw, what to do or what to say. _Tick-tock, tick-tock…_ “No apology necessary. I’ll just get my pesky self out of your hair.”

“I’m worried for you, Una.”

That makes me stop. Shock runs up my body and like a whip anger follows suit. “Worried? You’re worried about _me_?” There are so many things I want to say, but my eyes only narrow and flit from face to face in debilitating rage. I am paralyzed with all of the thoughts running around but all I can grit out is, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. I’m seriously sorry about how I handled things, but it doesn’t change the fact that I think you’re being taken advantage of.” I stare relentlessly at her, jaw clenched so hard I think it might be stuck. “Your bank statements are still being forwarded here,” she pulls an envelope seemingly out of nowhere – opened – and holds it out to me. “I know you’ve been trying to return the money, but you can’t. He won’t let you.”

He.

_He won’t let you._

The words sting. I have been mostly successful in not thinking about the aforementioned he, the heavily implied Pagan Min. The medicine helps and so does sleeping on a couch with no privacy because I’m constantly busy, but nighttime is one lonely son of a bitch.

“Not your fucking business, though, right?” I snatch the envelope and it crumbles in my hand. Don’t need to read it because I harass the bankers every other day now. Probably need to switch. “Thanks for the help, though.”

Iggy isn’t perturbed, “It’s leverage, Una. I’m really just trying to help you out. I want you to be safe.”

“He’s a tyrant.” Thi says, “He’s gotten what he has because he stops at nothing to get it. You only helped minorly on a suit that wasn’t even commissioned from a local tailor, but somehow he found you and has been in contact with you. He knows where you live, who you are, and him dumping money into your account isn’t a coincidence. He wants something from you.”

I look blankly at Thi. “Backup, huh?” I don’t know who I’m addressing, but my unimpressed tone makes a statement that it could be either or both.

Iggy shakes her head, “This isn’t a fight. We’re not here to fight you.”

I nod, rolling my tongue in my mouth, “Let me get this straight: a couple of weeks ago I was an accessory to a tyrannical douche, but now I’m suddenly the victim of him.” I hold my hands up in mock surrender, “Forgive me if I’m not super receptive to your thoughts on me. They’re a bit inconsistent.”

Thi sighs, “Things have changed since then. I’m sorry for how I handled things, too, but I didn’t realize what was happening.”

“Nothing is happening. At all. You two are the ones obsessed with him, I haven’t had any contact with the guy at all and you’re the ones bringing him back into this like it’s an FBI investigation.”

“What do you think he wants then, Una?” Iggy pleads, “Think about it. Please.”

I balk in disbelief, “I don’t know what he wants! All I know is that the sooner I get the money back to him the sooner I don’t have to worry about all of this bullshit,” I say, gesturing in their direction.

“It’s not that simple and you know it. Have you thought about how he knew you were hurt? Or that your car got totaled? Or that you had no insurance to cover it?” Iggy raises her arms, straining them frustratedly. “Someone brought you back shitfaced – they intervened at the perfect moment and they knew how to get you home, but they didn’t help Ezio. Have you thought about that?”

I have thought about it. All of it. The letters and emails were weird but not but only minor thinking points in my mind. The money was a pain in my back and the person who brought me home… creepy to think about but not impossible to explain, especially since I don’t remember shit to dispute or approve any theories.

It does worry me. It has kept me up when I’m not thinking about him in general, but I haven’t been thinking about it a lot and they keep trudging it up like a reanimated corpse.

“None of it makes sense.” Iggy echoes my thoughts. But right now I have magma coursing in my veins because she doesn’t know shit, either.

I stuff the bank statements in my pocket, I want to get the hell out of here. “Still, none of your business. I’m trying to forget about it and so should you.”

“He’s not the type of Alpha you get to say no to – not forever,” Thi says somberly like she’s_ pitying_ me.

“That’s right, you two want to play the hero for the helpless little Omega, right?” I scoff, “How the fuck would he know I’m an Omega? Better yet, why go after me of all people? There’s plenty of other Omegas out there he’s actually met, why don’t you go share this concern with them? Because I don’t want it. I don’t need it.”

“You helped make his suit. He could know.”

Iggy’s words ring in my head like a roaring echo chamber. I had banished that possibility from my head when he sent me the letter. I had been wearing gloves, taking meds, and even donned scent blockers; Dolce and Gabanna guaranteed washed the suit to Bermuda and back so there was no way in hell he’d know.

Iggy knows all of that, even as a Beta. Which is why the implication of it is so heady. There was only one possible way he could have learned of my designation and they’ve been thinking that same thing I had denied in my head until the thought was buried.

The anger doesn’t subside even as the fear bubbles up to the surface with it. They’re wrong and I’m pissed they’re even suggesting this to me, because I know it’s absurd – impossible, even.

_They just think I’m weak. Think I’ll give in to some money and a powerful title._

Screw that and screw them.

“Like I said, thanks but I don’t need anyone’s help – not from an Alpha and certainly not from you two.”

I am out the door before they can snag me with something else. Whatever they say next blurs out as my anger continues to mount with each step, and right before the door shuts I hear Thi say, “We tried to help”.

I don’t cool down by the time I walk to Thread & Dread. I should probably apologize for my extended tardiness, but I just throw the rest of my stuff on the couch in the back and contemplate punching a hole in the wall like a Kyle. Not usually my mojo but I am remarkably high strung.

“Didn’t go so well, then?”

I look at Ezio, leaning in the doorway with an awkward smile that is probably supposed to be comforting and half-funny but really just comes off as mandatory like he’s scared I’m going to attack him for speaking.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, the options can wait if you need time to cool off.”

I shake my head. “Wanna get my mind off of it. What’s in the air?”

Ezio sighs, relenting without further dispute. “Got lots of small fixes flowing in, but there’s also been some interest from a theatre troupe that wants versatile costumes that could stretch from the 20s to the 80s.”

I nod my head only half-interested. Ezio takes it as confirmation to move on but I’m finding it extremely difficult to juggle my anger, thoughts, anger _at_ my thoughts, and my ability to focus.

“…need more fabrics for that one. Then – _oh shit_ – I forgot,” this jerks my head up. Ezio cussing? A rare occurrence. “I left someone on hold, and I was supposed to tell you as soon as you got in.”

My brow furrows, “What? Why?”

“He was asking for you specifically. Something about your 'expertise'.” Ezio makes air quotes with his fingers but doesn’t elaborate. The lack of information is honestly the icing on my frustration cake.

I try to restrain my desire to bite back a reply, “For what?”

“I don’t remember, something about redoing his closet.”

Being a tailor doesn’t equate to being fashionable – I am no advisor in the ways of redoing one's closet unless it’s torn up.

I sigh, already knowing I’m going to turn the offer down. “Did you get a name?”

“Paul-something. I threw him on hold because I was getting bombarded with calls. I told him he could just call back, but he said he was okay waiting.” Ezio looks at his iPhone, “That was probably twenty or so minutes ago, though.”

“Transfer it to me,” I say, backpedaling to my desk.

Ezio punches the buttons and the wired phone rings for half a second before I pick it up, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Una here, to whom am I speaking?”

“Uh, this is Paul Harmon.” A gruff and deep voice answers me on the other end. It's so painfully awkward to listen to, almost like he wasn’t expecting me to answer or was scripted. Among my least favorite people to talk to because they annoy me but I feel bad that they annoy me.

“Hello, Mr. Harmon, I apologize about your wait. Ezio told me you were interested in something that I could help you with and I was wondering if you could tell me a bit more about it?” I play with some paper clips on my desk and try to keep my voice as neutral from annoyance as possible.

“Could you, uh, just – “ there’s a rustling noise and some muffled words I can’t make out. I start bending a paper clip out of shape as my brow furrows in confusion. “I’m sorry, just – one moment please.”

“That’s fine.” I don’t think he hears me though because there are more loud rustling and more drowned conversation.

_“De Pleur … the phone.”_

More loud and unidentifiable noises that are starting to really piss me off. Not in the mood for whatever is happening here. I exhale through my nose, “Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt however I am very busy right now, could we arrange to talk some other time?”

The noise stops, “On the contrary, I think now is the perfect time to talk, dear. I had to do a bit of waiting to get ahold of you as well.”

That… is a new voice. Much more confident and richer with inflection, I’d even say pleasant to listen to. It throws me off for a second as I try to move past the lingering grip that the pleasant lilt grasps my brain in.

Dazed, it still doesn’t explain why someone else is talking to me. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“This is Pagan Min.”

The paper clip in my hand jabs into my thumb as I gape in a combination of shock and anger. _What the fuck?_

This really isn’t fucking funny at all. I don’t know who’d have the balls or knowledge to pull this sort of stupid prank, but now I’m _really_ pissed.

My hands tighten into fists and I try extremely hard not to fly off the handle and just cuss whoever this is out.

I want to verbally throw them into orbit but all I do is snap, “Is this some sort of joke? Who is this really?”

There’s a pause where I can hear my heart pounding in my ear, followed by a light and airy chuckle that shakes me to my knees.

“Well, if you don’t like Pagan Min I also accept my King or your Majesty, but I think that’s too formal for a first phone call, no?”

The anger fizzles out. There’s a sort of chastising and playful tone in his voice that makes me feel guilty – silly, even, for not believing it was him. For ignoring that subtle throb in my throat, or that nudge in my gut.

Oh _shit_. **Holy shit**_._

I hang up.


End file.
